


Once Upon a September

by emlohamora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Amnesia, Anya and Dmitry are the blueprint, Con Artist Draco Malfoy, Con Artist Theo Nott, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy knows everything, Except now it's Hermione and Draco, F/M, False Identity, False Memories, Grindelwald should burn, Hermione Granger Needs a Hug, Implied Draco Malfoy/Other character, Implied Hermione Granger/Other character, Inspired by Anastasia (1997 & Broadway), Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Muggle London, Orphanage, Removal of Magic, Statute of Secrecy (Harry Potter), Time Turner (Harry Potter), minor hostage situation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emlohamora/pseuds/emlohamora
Summary: September 1996. Hermione Granger is sixteen, excited beyond her wits to begin her sixth year at Hogwarts. This is the year that Madam Pince promises her she can have access to the Restricted Section in the Library. The next thing she knows, she's on top of a building, and two days later she watches her friends lose their memories and their magic.September 1999. Jean is twenty, her life a shell of what it could have been because she knows nothing. She knows her small flat, her old room at the orphanage, and the cat that wouldn't leave when she bought said flat. The thing that she doesn't know is herself, she has no idea who she is. But, could she find out?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	1. The Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the notes at the end of the chapter for content warnings before you start to read.
> 
> Here is a link to the [Spotify playlist](%E2%80%9C) that I will be updating as I work on this. Updates will be roughly once every two weeks at the start while I finish up another fic I am working on, but will become weekly or even more frequent than that once that project is completed.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

_**[SEPTEMBER 1996]** _

Hermione didn’t know where she was. It was cold‒ definitely cold, the wind was whipping her curls past her face so that they were slapping against her already chapped lips. She would have been able to see it if there hadn’t been a piece of fabric occluding her vision. Of course there was. Whoever it was that had taken her somewhere cold and windy couldn’t have given her the liberty to be able to see anything.

Her hands were bound‒ something she had unfortunately expected when regaining consciousness.

She tried to run over the list of things that she knew to be true in her mind. She was Hermione Jean Granger, muggle-born witch, Prefect of Gryffindor House, daughter of Jean and Roger Granger, best friend of one Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, currently in the first month of her sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She also knew that her hands were bound and her vision blocked by similar pieces of fabric. 

Where was she? It was cold, windy, and… 

That was when she heard the sound of horns. Car horns. Traffic. She tried to focus her senses away from the way the fabric dug into her wrists and onto identifying the traffic patterns below her. There were the noises of people, faint, but still recognizable over the sounds of the cars. Sirens from fire engines roared far in the distance. Wherever she was, it was a metropolitan area.

And then she heard the chimes in the near distance. Chimes that she had heard for years, recognized from her childhood when she would go into the city with her parents and watch the musicals that they would take her to. 

She was in London. She knew she was in London because she could hear the chimes of Big Ben. The only question was, where was she in relation to the clocktower? She could hear the cars and the noises of people, all further proof that she was in London. The last thing she remembered, she was in the castle, walking back to the Gryffindor Common Room after rounds alone because, as usual, Malfoy had failed to show up. He never showed up anymore. And now she was being held hostage somewhere in central London, in the cold, her hands bound, her wand‒ 

Where was her wand? She moved her hands, pinned behind her back and wrapped around some sort of cool metal surface with what she assumed was a sticking charm, trying to position them so that she could attempt to feel for it in her robe pockets, but it was then that she realized she wasn’t wearing her robe. No wonder it was so cold.

No wand, hands bound, eyes blindfolded. A perfect way for her to be spending her night. If only Malfoy had shown up to his bloody Prefect responsibilities, then maybe she wouldn’t‒ 

Then she felt it. A hot puff of air permeating through her hair. It was silent and barely anything at all, but she was out in the cold, and warm air didn’t come from the wind. She was supposed to be the Brightest Witch of her Age. She wasn’t idiotic enough to believe that a burst of warm air in an otherwise freezing environment originated from anything other than a human mouth. Now which human it was, she had no clue.

If only she had her wand, she would be able to disarm and stun the person and then apparate away. She could deal later with the consequences of apparition and using other forms of magic while underage. Although her predicament could have been life or death, so she doubted McGonagall would let her go to jail or lose her magic for escaping by whatever means necessary.

Whatever means necessary. What means did she even have? She had her hands‒ no, they were bound. She had her legs‒ no, she couldn’t lift them off of the ground, probably another sticking charm. She clicked her jaw, opening it ever so slightly without moving her lips, the small movement alerting her to the fact that she could bite whoever it was that was holding her hostage; however, she wouldn’t be able to do that unless they revealed themselves to her. 

Whatever means necessary. She didn’t have a wand, she couldn’t do anything physically, but maybe‒ no. There was no way that she could use wandless magic to call for help. She didn’t even know what spell she would try to use. She could attempt a Patronus Charm, but those were complex and hard to achieve with a wand in an environment where her life wasn’t on the line. Besides, Patronuses were more than visible, and if there was the chance that her‒ 

“You’re thinking about attempting to use magic, aren’t you,” a voice growled at her. It was one belonging to a man, deep and rumbling and absolutely _terrifying._

She was in London. Alone. Tied up. With a man. Terrified didn’t even begin to describe the whirlwind of emotions racing through her. She wasn’t very keen on dying, so she stayed silent, not trusting her voice even if she wanted to speak. He didn’t like that.

“Don’t bother denying it,” he snarled again, his voice growing closer to her. It wasn’t coming from behind anymore, but from in front of her. She was just counting down the seconds at that point. “I can feel you attempting to draw from the stores.”

Then her blindfold was being untied, the fabric slipping away as her eyes met his, icy blue and startling and _terrifying._ The thoughts hadn’t even registered that he might untie her blindfold, so she wasn’t closing her eyes or glancing away or anything other than getting a good look at her captor. He was considerably taller than she was, his spiky white blonde hair making him seem just that much taller and demanding, a presence that she couldn’t ignore. 

The ripple of a dark orange fire in his eyes‒ momentary, fleeting‒ sent her brain spinning, the magic of just his gaze impaling her almost sinisterly. For that was when she realized who was standing in front of her, who exactly it was that had captured her and brought her to the centre of London in the middle of the night. It was Gellert Grindelwald. She had read about him in books before, one of the most notorious dark wizards of his time, even worse than You Know Who had been before he died when Harry was only a baby. 

“Your magic is effervescent, my darling,” he cooed maniacally, grinning down at her as the Joker did in Batman, her father’s favourite movie. The comparison was unnerving in more ways than she could imagine. “You are proving yourself to be the perfect choice for this evening.”

She didn’t dare to speak or move or breathe, her thoughts and mind and body betraying her as they ran in twenty-seven different directions, none of which were actively helping her to escape. 

“Don’t bother keeping your thoughts to yourself, dear, I can already hear them.”

Hear her thoughts? He could hear her‒

“Yes, I can indeed,” he answered, her question never having left her lips. “Don’t bother trying to use your magic, you’ll just end up hurting yourself more. This will be drastically less painful if you cooperate. Although, you’ll still end up dead.”

Dead. Perfect. So she had assumed right. There was no reason that Gellert Grindelwald would kidnap her, take her somewhere in the middle of London, bind her, and not kill her. If only she could figure out where she was so that she could formulate a way to get back to Hogwarts. 

That was when she noticed the glimmer of a gold statue behind the image of her captor. A gold statue that she would have recognized anywhere, for her mother had taught her about it when she saw it for the first time at age seven. It was the Queen Victoria Memorial. Except, it seemed to be below her…

No. That was absolutely preposterous. There was no way that she could be on top of Buckingham Palace. How would have he gotten her up there?

Except everything leant itself to the fact that she was atop Buckingham Palace. The sounds of cars and people from down further into the city, the angle at which she was seeing the Queen Victoria Memorial, the cold air indicating altitude. All of it. 

She was trapped atop Buckingham Palace. Buckingham Palace. Where the Queen lived. She was trespassing on the Queen’s property. 

_I’m so sorry, your Majesty._

“I see you’ve figured it out then,” he mused, crossing away from her and over towards what seemed to be a table set up on the rooftop. She couldn’t see what was on it because of his frame, blocking her view. She wondered what exactly it was he had there, waiting to use on her, what ways he would torture her until she was cold, limp, and dead. “Cue the wondering. It’s nice to know you’re smart, Miss Granger. The Brightest Witch of your Age. Pfft. It’s almost ironic that you were naive enough to be walking around the castle alone at the hour you were. Maybe you aren’t so bright after all. Or maybe you just lack the knowledge of other people and their possible dark habits. Either way, your magic is more than sufficient. It will make for an excellent ceremony.”

Ceremony. What was this ceremony that he kept referring to? And how was he in her head?

“Eager, are you? I guess we could begin now,” he hummed, turning away from the table with an obsidian dagger in his hand. It thrummed with magic, Hermione could just tell. “There’s no reason to keep anyone waiting‒”

“What is this ceremony you keep mentioning?” Hermione asked, gathering all of her Gryffindor courage to ensure that her tone would not warble and her words were precise. 

His eyes were once again cold and fiery as they surveyed her, sliding up and down her body as if he was inspecting her before purchase. He seemed to be thinking, pondering her question and deciding whether or not he would tell her. But if he was going to kill her, there would be no harm in telling her. Hermione knew that; she wasn’t stupid. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed, prompting her to remember that he was somehow in her head and she had to subsequently be careful of what she was thinking. “You’ll be dead, so it’s not like this plan can escape between the two of us.” 

He paused, turning around and placing the dagger down as he began to talk. “There is an old ritual in which one can use the blood of a powerful muggle-born to gain ancient magic. Once the magic is obtained, there is a ceremony in which the sacrifice of a muggle-born can allow for the revocation of magic in its entirety, essentially eliminating the wizarding world as we know it.”

While her thoughts should have been on the fact that she would have to both shed her blood and die in two separate events, they were stuck instead on the fact that Grindelwald, one of the most powerful wizards of all time, was intent on ridding the world of magic.

“Why would you want to take away the ability to use magic?” Hermione inquired, her voice wobbling slightly at the implications of the predicament she found herself in.

He turned around slowly, his eyes burning once again as they caught on hers, his voice lilting and his lips quirking as he purred, “Why don’t we just mark it as a personal matter, hm? I think it is time we get started.”

The dagger in his hand as he approached. The fire burning bright in his eyes, the cool blue a direct contrast to the twilight behind his head. The icy feel of his palm on her wrist as his magic allowed him to yank her left arm free but keep the rest of her binds intact. 

One arm free. She had one arm free. Sure, it wasn’t her dominant one, but she could work with that. She was planning to work with that. If she could punch at his arm to dislodge the dagger from in between his fingers and then scratch at his eyes, she could use her free hand to untie herself while he was unconscious, if she could get him in such a state.

“ _Petrificus totalus,_ ” he muttered, her body going rigid before she could start a scuffle. Of course he would use the body-bind curse on her. He was in her head. She might as well just have told him her plan out loud. 

She was going to die for being an idiot. An idiot who couldn’t remember that her captor had a window inside her mind. 

He was rolling up the sleeve on her free arm, paralysed in midair without his hand to hold it up. And then his eyes were on his, a cruel smirk elongating his lips in another unknowing allusion to the Joker. Merlin, she wished it was Jack Nicholson in front of her instead. “Try to hold still, Miss Granger.”

The pain was searing as he flayed her skin, hot lava bursting from within her as the blood spilled over. She couldn’t see through the thick substance that was her own, but it felt as if he was carving a piece of art, the line not straight but jagged and broken. She tried to scream, but her jaw was magicked closed, so the noise garbled and died in her throat. Luckily enough, the body-bind curse wasn’t strong enough to sit too deep, as her tears were still able to escape, heavy and damning as they rolled over her cheeks and stained her complexion. 

She tried once again to calm her thoughts, to give herself a sense of peace in this terror-stricken event, something safe and pure to hold onto for her last few minutes alive. She was Hermione Jean Granger. She had a family and friends who loved her, who would remember her as the girl who never gave up, not even at the end‒

The girl who never gave up. Not even at the end. Her friends. Ron, Harry, and she had gotten into quite a few compromising situations over the years. If there was some way that she could just summon them to her. If they were here, with their wands, they had a chance of getting her out. The probability of it working was miniscule, but it was something. 

_Harry. Harry, I don’t think you can hear me, or sense me, or anything, but please help. Bring Ron and your wands. Harry, please._

She felt the faint burst of knives on the edge of her conscience and pushed them away, centering her thoughts on Harry, just Harry. 

_Harry, please. I am begging you._

The dark wizard in front of her moved abruptly, using Accio to summon a vial from over on his table, where she now noticed a cauldron was boiling, the steam rising from it in wafts that appeared to be spiralling. She knew from her experience in Potions that the spiralling of vapours signalled the potion was almost ready. 

This was really happening. Gellert Grindelwald was going to brew a potion that would give him the power to eradicate magic from the entire wizarding world. It would be then that he would do just that, revoke the ability to use magic from everyone who previously had it, maybe even everyone who would ever have it, depending on the specifics of the ceremony. And Hermione Granger was going to be an accomplice. An unwilling one, but still an accomplice. 

The vial hovered in the air as he used his wand to draw the ever-accumulating blood from her arm and direct it into the glass flask. He didn’t bother to close the wound or roll her sleeve back down or anything, instead opting to cross to the cauldron atop the work table and leave her alone, paralysed in the autumn-tinged wind. 

She wasn’t alone half a second later when spells suddenly started flying, wisps of red and blue and yellow crackling through the air as bodies started moving and Grindelwald dropped the vial, shattering it against the roof of the castle and spilling her blood over the infrastructure. She most certainly wasn’t alone when she caught the flash of fiery red locks on a girl’s head and green eyes belonging to a boy.

She hoped they weren’t located directly above the Queen’s bedroom. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley never did anything quietly, even more so when they were together.

Neville appeared behind Hermione as the other Gryffindors‒ Ron, Seamus, Parvati, and Lavender‒ all joined Harry and Ginny in shooting spells at the dark wizard. Dean was in front of her, his eyes worried on hers.

“Fefifitrus Fotalus,” she tried to explain through her closed lips, attempting to tell Dean that he would have to‒

“ _Finite Incantatem,_ ” he muttered, her arm dropping to her side and her jaw falling open with the lack of the body-bind curse. She could feel Neville’s hands on her wrist behind her, undoing the magic and the binds from both her hand and her legs, and before she knew it, she was free. 

“I don’t have my wand,” she expressed, feeling vulnerable as she watched Grindelwald deflect her friends’ spells with ease and even get in a few curses of his own. The two Gryffindor boys around her paled considerably at her confession, undoubtedly unsure of what to do about it. Hermione Granger needed a wand. They knew it just as much as she did; she was the best one out of the lot of them regarding spellwork. If they wanted to get out alive, they needed her to have a wand.

The three of them stared at each other for a moment before Dean turned around and pointed his wand in the general area where Grindelwald was standing and called, “ _Accio_ wand!”

It was quite possibly one of the dumbest ideas Hermione had ever heard, but a few seconds later, her vinewood and dragon heartstring wand was in her hand. They could get out‒

A large burst of light over by where she had last seen Grindelwald standing interrupted her thoughts, the magic seeming to have originated from Ginny’s wand. Everyone froze, their magic halting before Hermione could ever even mutter a single spell. 

Then the sound of cracking, her eyes glancing down, watching the fractures appearing under her feet as she silently gasped. When she looked back up, regarding the dark wizard who had brought them here in the first place, his gaze was on her and his Joker smile returned before the ground fell out underneath him, his body tumbling through the roof and debris down to the ground level. 

Another flash of light, deriving this time from an individual to her left as it followed the blond-haired and fiery-eyed wizard to the depths of Buckingham Palace. When her observance tracked the tightrope of magic, she found someone she had not expected, a long white beard and kind eyes regarding her as she did him. Dumbledore had found her‒ found _them_ duelling a dark wizard atop Buckingham Palace.

“God save the Queen,” he mumbled, his eyes glassy. “Isn’t that the phrase, Miss Granger?”

-*-

She doubted McGonagall would let her lose her magic when she was still bound atop of Buckingham Palace. But here she was, waiting in a dark classroom with her closest friends waiting for Snape to do the spell to take away their magic. 

It was out of McGonagall’s hands. The Statute of Secrecy had been broken. Muggles had found out what was happening while she was atop the Queen’s residence. The damage done to the landmark was something that couldn’t be disillusioned or charmed away; it was too extensive. Her Majesty’s life had been put at risk because of Grindelwald and his barmy plan to sacrifice her and get rid of magic forever. 

Instead of him getting rid of magic forever, he only managed to make it so that the lot of them would never be able to use it again or even know that they had it at one time. He had forced the entire wizarding world underground. So what, he had lost yet he still got some variation of what he wanted? How was that fair? How was any of this fair? She was just walking back to her common room when somehow she ended up on the top of Buckingham Palace and now she was‒ 

Snape turned away from the desk he was leering over, eyeing the group of them suspiciously. Although, the longer Hermione looked, the more she noticed how his eyes glinted ever so slightly with something more, something palpable. Was it pity? Did Professor Snape pity them for having to be obliviated for something out of their control? That would have been a first.

The announcement of their punishment was given the day prior. Dumbledore had appeared on the roof of the Palace just as Grindelwald was falling, that part of the night being tracked back completely to them. The magic had, in fact, come from Ginny’s wand. A _Reducto_ spell. She always excelled at that one. 

The Headmaster was the one to apparate them back to Hogwarts that night, instructing them to wait in his office while he called for the appropriate adults. Apparently, Albus Dumbledore, who she knew from research was 115 years old, wasn’t enough of an adult in regards to their crimes. The statement was corroborated when Albus Dumbledore went missing the morning after their ordeal.

They had broken the Statute of Secrecy. Muggles had watched the skirmish occur from down on the street. They _saw_ the magic coming from the Gryffindor’s wands. As a result, Minister Fudge had decided to obliviate the group of them of their knowledge of magic and give them a potion that would render them muggles. 

Not just did it impact them, but because magic had been discovered by muggles, the entire wizarding world was being forced underground. The students in their sixth and seventh years were going to be obliviated and their memories rearranged so that they would think that their schooling had halted following the cessation of the end of the school year prior. Those younger were going to be obliviated of the start of this year so that they could gain proper training before graduating after their OWL exams. All of this came from the Minister, of course.

In Hermione’s eyes, Fudge was a prick. 

“The procedure will work as follows,” Snape drawled, twirling his wand boringly as if this monumental moment in all of their lives was just something he had to check off of his to-do list. “You will all take the magical-suppressant potion first, after which the obliviation will occur. Once you have been obliviated, you will be stunned so that we can place you accordingly back into the muggle world.”

Ah yes, their “placement.” They couldn’t just be dropped on their arses in the nearest muggle town, that would be considered child endangerment. But wiping their memories and taking a large part of their identity was apparently more than within the lines of reason. After they were made into muggles, they would be placed with people who could take care of them. Ron and Ginny were going to an aunt of theirs who was a squib. Dean was going to live with his mother. Harry would be returning to 12 Privet Drive. Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, and Neville were all being sent to various other locations, under the supervision of squibs who were trustworthy in the eyes of the Ministry. Hermione was being sent back home to her parents; that was the only thing that made the whole situation okay, knowing that she wouldn’t be somewhere foreign but instead, under her parents’ roof. They were going to be checked up on every three months, Ministry officials disguised as doctors planning to make sure their obliviation was holding strong and their magic hadn’t returned.

“If there are no other questions, we shall begin,” Snape concluded.

Hermione’s eyes shot over to McGonagall, standing next to Fudge behind Dumbledore’s desk. The woman’s eyes were sad, grieving as she waited for their impending doom. Her Head of House had attempted to stop it, arguing that they were only children who were attempting to save their friend. But Fudge insisted on the harshest form of punishment, rationing that the wizarding community in the UK had to know that breaking the Statute of Secrecy could not occur without consequences. “A precedent,” he had called it. 

A single tear rolled down the aged woman’s face as Snape stepped up to Harry. It was then that Hermione thanked whatever silent power it was that existed and ruled over the earth as she knew it for placing her in the care of McGonagall. She was the one to teach her about wizarding customs, about the spells that her mother would have taught her if she had magic. McGonagall was the one to give her access to the extensive Hogwarts library at all hours of the day, an agreement she had reached with Madam Pince on the condition that Hermione promised not to eat in the stacks. Hermione would never have eaten in the stacks. If there was one thing the Gryffindor would miss about magic and Hogwarts besides her friends, the fun they had, and the library, it would be Professor McGonagall. 

Hermione refused to look over at her friends as, one by one, they all sipped their flasks of the potion and their memories were wiped from behind their eyes. She did not give Fudge the satisfaction of watching the stunning spells hit them square in their chests, their bodies slumping before being brought over to chairs. No, she stared straight at him. 

She stared straight at him until Snape stood in front of her, occluding her view of the depraved man trusted to make decisions for the entirety of wizarding Britain. His lips were curled as he groused, “Are you ready, Miss Granger?”

She lifted her chin high, took a deep breath in preparation for her fate, and opened her lips, about to say the words when there was a voice emanating from behind her.

“Professors, it seems that we have an emergency,” the voice said. Hermione immediately recognized it as belonging to Gemma Farley, the Slytherin who had been made Head Girl this year. 

“What sort of emergency, Miss Farley?” Professor McGonagall queried, stepping to the side so that Hermione could see the woman just beyond the edge of Snape’s frame. 

“The students seemed to have staged a rebellion against the proceedings occurring later today. It’s practically the entire student body at this point. We can’t contain them.”

Good. At least someone can stick it to Fudge and his awful decisions.

Snape turned over his shoulder to look at McGonagall and Fudge, and in an instant, they were following Gemma out the door. The three of them. Leaving her alone with her unconscious friends. 

If she was alone, she could escape. She had handed her wand over to Fudge when she arrived, but where had he put it? If she could just get her hands on it, she would be able to rennervate her friends and go downstairs and help the other students so that Fudge could see how wrong‒ 

She would be able to rennervate her friends but she wouldn’t be able to give them their memories back. She would be able to revive them but not their magic. They would still be clueless and without the ability to perform any spells. What was done was done.

Hermione knew she would feel incredibly guilty if she left them in this state, even if it meant helping the others. They would have sided with her initial thoughts and told her to go, reasoning that they were the acceptable casualties in the prevention of an even larger catastrophe, but she would never see it as that. They were her best friends. They had come to save her from being sacrificed atop Buckingham Palace. No, she couldn’t leave them. Her mind was made up.

Then the door swung open and she was turning around, afraid that her last few moments of knowing who she was had been taken from her upon the Professors return. She just wanted a few minutes to remember her friends as they were and reflect on their times together before she would no longer be able to remember that they existed. If Fudge had returned early and taken that from her too, she was convinced he would have been the acceptable casualty.

She most certainly did not expect to see Draco Malfoy hurrying into the room and shutting the door behind him, his wand drawn. 

“Malfoy?”

He turned to face her, his eyes wide as he scanned the room, asking her questions all the while. “Have they given you the potion yet?”

She was floored. “How do you know about the potion?”

“Just answer the damn question, Granger! We don’t have much time.”

She forced her lower jaw to meet her upper, putting a stop to her gaping as she answered, “No, they haven’t given me the potion.”

“And you obviously still know who I am, so I’m assuming the obliviation hasn’t occurred yet,” he bit, snarling at her slightly before his eyes flitted over her shoulder towards the row of chairs that she knew had become occupied by her friends and their unconscious forms. “Already?” he croaked, his voice quiet as he froze. “All of them already?”

She wasn’t sure if he was muttering to himself or genuinely asking her, but she spoke nevertheless, even if it was just to clear her own head and cement in her consciousness that everything was happening as it was. “Snape was just about to give me the potion when Gemma Farley came in and said they had an emergency. I was the last one to go.”

He seethed with the words, the darkness and frustration rolling off of him in waves as he finally met her eyes again, tearing his gaze away from the comatose figures aggressively. “Do you have your wand?”

Why was he here? Why had he barged in and stolen the last moments of her time truly knowing herself to interrogate her on the proceedings of one of the most traumatic events of her life? And why was he asking her if she had her wand?

“No, I don’t have my wand,” she said, her tone revealing her dumbfoundedness at the stupidity of his inquiry. “I handed it over to them before any of this started. We were supposed to become muggles before you so rudely interrupted‒”

“Rudely interrupted?” he bickered back, leering down at her. She wished she was taller so she could come across as more intimidating. “Do you want to get out of here or not, Granger?”

Get out of here? He was offering to get her out of here? With a wand? Magic and memories still intact? 

“What do you mean ‘get out of here?’”

“Merlin’s tit,” he groused, moving past her over towards the desk that Fudge and McGonagall had been standing at earlier and pulling open the top drawers of the bureau, shuffling through them at lightning speed. “For a person who is apparently so smart, you are extremely idiotic.”

“Why would you want to get me out of here? I mean, _me_ of all people. ”

He paused, looking up at her, his sneer having disappeared. “I was planning on getting the lot of you out of here, but dear Theodore just had to wait until the ‘proper moment’ or whatever shit he said earlier to enact the plan.”

She was growing impatient, her heartbeat quickening as she watched him fumble through papers and folders, searching for her wand. “What does Theodore Nott have to do with any of this?”

“For the brightest witch of our age, you are pretty daft, Granger,” he mumbled, his hand reaching deep into one specific drawer until he pulled it back, her vinewood and dragon heartstring wand in his fingers. “Let’s go.”

He moved past her again, his fingers gripping her upper arm like a vice as they started to the door. But she wasn’t just going to go. He still hadn’t answered her question yet.

“Why are you getting me out?” she asked, breaking free from his grasp and stepping backwards, breathing heavily at him as he halted simultaneously, one hand outstretched towards the door handle. “Why were you trying to get any of us out?”

His expression was one of arrogant incredulity as he answered her. “They’re going to obliviate all of us, you know. It wasn’t just you who were getting the short end of the stick.”

“That still doesn’t‒ “

“There is no reason that anyone should have to lose their magic,” he huffed, his eyes closing in bitter defeat as he aggressively spat out the words. “It’s not just a thing that you can take away. I might not be a saint but I do know that nobody deserves to lose their magic for something that wasn’t even their fault.”

She was shocked, honestly. Draco Malfoy was doing something because the alternative was wrong. “I didn’t know you had morals,” she lilted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t know that you and your little playmates could take down one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time,” he quipped. “Life is full of surprises. Now let’s go before we get caught and I get my magic taken too. I doubt my mother would be thrilled about that.”

She didn’t protest when he grabbed her arm and yanked her out the door, using his free hand to press her wand into her palm. The instrument felt weird under her fingers, thrumming differently as if it hadn’t expected to be in her possession again. She certainly hadn’t expected it‒ 

“Forget what a wand is, Granger?” he sneered, ushering her down a staircase she had never known to exist before. “I thought you said you hadn’t been obliviated yet.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and scoffed, pulling her arm from his clutch as they continued their descent. Of course it had to be him. Nobody else could have come to rescue her.

The stairwell led to a door, which Draco insisted that she walk through, despite her numerous protests. The door led to a tunnel, which she followed him through, regardless of her threats. He threatened her right back, saying that he would use _Silencio_ on her if she didn’t stop her complaining. She didn’t complain again, not even daring to speak another word until they ascended from the tunnel into a room she didn’t recognize.

“Malfoy, where are we?” she asked, her gaze scanning the room around her, finding only broken chairs and an empty fireplace. 

“You don’t need to know that.”

Hermione turned to him abruptly, crossing her arms over her chest once again as she glared, “You dragged me through a dirty tunnel only to not tell me where we are? I suppose you won't tell me what you plan to do now that we’re here either.”

“There are those brains everyone is telling me about,” he smirked, lifting his wand and pointing his wand directly at Hermione’s forehead before she could even‒ 

She blinked. Once. Twice. There was a blond boy standing in front of her, his skin pale and his hands cold when they ripped something from her palms. What was he taking from her?

“Who are you?” she asked, trying to get a glimpse of his face, his eyes, something by which she might be able to recognize him as he turned away from her, giving her only a glance of his back, covered by a knit jumper with green around the edges. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that it looked like a school uniform. 

When he turned back around, the small glimmer of hope that began to stew in her gut dissipated completely, none of his features sparking any sort of recognition in her mind. In his hand was a piece of fabric, navy blue, something that she was entirely sure he hadn’t been holding before. 

He took a step closer to her and she backed away, suddenly becoming extremely uncertain of the boy standing in front of her, the dark circles under his eyes and the intense gaze he casted upon her. His features were shadowed somewhat due to the lack of light in the room, but she knew he was ominous. Dangerous.

“I asked you who you were,” she repeated, willing her voice to be strong and unwavering as she stood up to him.

His eye twitched. His shoulders tensed. She was afraid he was going to attack her, but then a quiet phrase effused from his tongue. “You’ll be safe here.”

Then his hand was on her wrist and the fabric made way for a cool metal, touching her hand as the world caved in on itself. She heard herself scream, the sound appearing garbled as she felt stretched between two different worlds, her mind and body in two different places until she felt her bum on the ground and a cool wind across her forehead. 

She opened her eyes, glancing upwards, and found an iron gate. When her gaze travelled behind her, she found a grand house, one that seemed as if it could have emerged straight out of the Victorian Era. She didn’t recognize it.

She didn’t recognize the house, nor the street in front of it, nor the gates, nor herself as she caught her image in the reflection of a puddle on the ground beneath her.

Where was she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter details a minor hostage situation for one of the characters. There is also a description and use of blood. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read. Thank you so much.


	2. The Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 here we go! The songs for this chapter from the Spotify playlist are "A Rumor in St. Petersburg" from the Anastasia OBCR and "Si tu reviens" by Louis-Jean Cormier. 
> 
> A million thanks always to my wonderful beta [Persephone! ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xchasingmoonlightx) Make sure you check out her works as well!

_**[SEPTEMBER 2000]** _

Draco Malfoy hated London. It was the worst place he had inhabited to date, and he had inhabited quite the variety of locations within the UK. 

Draco Malfoy hated London because it was full of barmy nutters. He would only go there if he absolutely had to, and even then Theo had to drag him through the door of their shared flat in the suburbs.

He always seemed to be reminded of just how much he hated the city when he was walking through it. It wasn’t an occurrence that happened too often, seeing as he attempted to avoid the outings as if they were dragon pox, but it wasn’t something he could completely circumvent. He was a con-man after all, and conning usually involved interacting with other people. 

Well, con-man was a heavy word. It wasn’t necessarily that he would con people, it was just that he was involved in certain things that weren’t exactly very legal, which usually resulted in him attempting to cheat and blackmail his business partners to keep their mouths shut. He had a way with words, so much so that while he was known to the world as Draco Malfoy: entrepreneur, he was actually Draco Malfoy: smuggler of illegal magical goods, products, and services to keep the near-dwindling wizarding world alive. 

Ah yes, the wizarding world. The place to be. Rather, it used to be the place to be. Draco had a love-hate relationship with the place and its nonsense. He loved it when he was growing up; magic was whimsical and elegant and _his_. Hogwarts was fun at first, the perfect place for him to learn how to be just that much better and show everyone else up. It wasn’t as much fun as his later years, he remembered, the rivalries between him and his Gryffindor classmates becoming too much at times. It most certainly wasn’t fun when, at the cessation of his fifth year, that obnoxious group of Gryffindors all decided to give up magic, publicly, because there was nothing that Harry sodding Potter could do that wasn’t public information. 

They gave up magic and everything went to hell. Well, it wasn’t necessarily because they gave up their magic, but more of an odd coincidence. But Draco didn’t believe in coincidences. The wizarding world had been forced into secrecy since well into the middle ages, during the infamous witch trials everyone learned about in History of Magic class with Professor Binns. But after the imbeciles went and left, the wizarding world was forced into more secrecy than ever before. Hogwarts had been shuddered for the most part. The year after Draco had graduated, it was still operating, serving the students in the years underneath him; however, they weren’t accepting new first years. He had learned through the grapevine that muggle-born witches and wizards were sent to safehouses to learn how to control their magic and limit the chances of exposure, but nothing more. Witches and wizards who had magical parents were given private lessons from their parents and travelling teachers associated with the school. The Ministry of Magic was virtually nonexistent, seeing as most everyone was prohibited from using magic outside of their own homes or pre-designated areas where they gathered. 

Of course, that didn’t mean that everyone listened to their little rules. No, Draco very rarely listened to those rules. Theo was slightly better, keeping him out of complete legal ruin and all, but they were very much not law-abiding wizards. 

When they left their shared flat, they almost always did so in search of another business deal. Diagon Alley had become the centre of their world, or rather, their trading-of-illegal-but-not-completely-illegal goods world. While Knockturn Alley had been the centre of such acts when the pair were younger, after their world was forced into hiding, Knockturn shrivelled up and Diagon Alley took its place. There were vendors and secret exchanges and unexpected turns at every corner. It was thrilling and not completely legal, but it gave Draco the ability to live like the snake he was. 

Naturally, Diagon Alley had become the only place Draco liked to go. Not-con man con-man, and all that. 

“You ready, mate?” a familiar voice asked, bounding through the house as its accompanying body joined his sound in the doorway of Draco’s room. Theo had become Draco’s partner in crime (literally), almost right after they graduated from Hogwarts. They had been in school together but were never that close, just sharing tight lipped acknowledgements in the corridors and the common room, but never anything more. After everything that happened with his mother, Theo was the only person consistently there for him. Blaise was always off somewhere else and Pansy had her fashion empire, but Theo stayed around, checking in on him when nobody else did. It just so happened that Theo was just as crafty with his words as Draco; he made a brilliant co-cheat-not-con-con-man. “We’re supposed to meet Jugson at the Leaky in fifteen.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he emitted, standing from his desk and crossing to his closet to grab his coat, shucking it on as he followed Theo out the door and down the corridor to the apparition point. It was only a moment before they were whisked away, landing with a step on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.

The problematic aspect regarding the increased security regarding the wizarding world was that they could no longer apparate to the secluded alleyway on the muggle side of the Leaky. According to Fudge, the “risks were too high” or some bullshite like that. The only way to get into the Leaky Cauldron via apparition was to enter Diagon Alley via the apparition point inside and trek through it until you reached the Leaky at the other end.

The whole walk was a pain in Draco’s arse. Diagon Alley had essentially died and dropped into the pits of hell. Hunched over hags in alcoves selling rubbish that had no value. Formerly dark witches and wizards who took up businesses much like Draco’s, squatting in abandoned shops and attempting to vendor old artefacts and illicit magical objects to passersby. 

He was a not-con-man con-man and he hated being around other more legitimate conmen. The walk through Diagon just cemented this even more, it always did. The figures were sketchy, hiding in corners and alleyways and dealing things that were much darker than those that Draco dealt. He only procured obscure potions and less destructive artefacts, never the heavy-duty, life-threatening things that these vendors traded. He hated it because they were dark, which meant that he was also dark by association. They all did the same thing, just to different degrees.

Draco hated that. His father was dark. He was not, or, at least he was not as dark. Gloomy, rather. He was gloomy.

When they whirled into the corner of the Alley marked as the apparition point, the scene was slightly different than usual. “Why the fuck are there so many people here?” Theo asked, glancing around, his shoulders tensing as they rose near his ears. 

He had a point. There were an unimaginable number of people in the Alley, all scrambling towards the peddlers who were notorious for objects. Draco wasn’t even sure that there were this many active witches and wizards left in his world. 

“No idea.”

Theo shrugged, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he cleared his throat. “Whatever mate,” he deflected, taking a few steps away from the apparition point and further into the Alley. “Let’s just get to the Leaky so we can finish this and get out of here.”

Draco nodded, checking his wand where it rested in the holster on his arm under his trenchcoat before following Theo through the people, his dragon leather shoes clicking against the cobblestone. 

Usually when they walked through the Alley, past the vendors and the con-men and other sketchy individuals, they would be largely ignored. Their scowls and the reputation of their families, combined with the way they walked as if they owned the world, would steer the patrons away from them, never interacting, never doing anything other than watching as they passed. Draco wondered, then, why it was that they were speaking to the pair today?

“Hey Malfoy,” one old prat called, rather obnoxiously, Draco thought. “You heard what we all have?”

“I don’t care enough to listen to you or any of your lies, Robinson,” the blond-haired wizard sniped back. 

“Pfft, takes one to know one.”

“Nott, maybe you need a new project? Something more worth your while than counterfeit potions and artefacts that wouldn’t be able to tell a wand from a broom?”

“Piss off, Hughes. I’m quite pleased with my potions and artefacts, thank you very much,” Theo retorted, picking up his pace as they continued to draw nearer to the Leaky Cauldron.

Draco didn’t even realize that Theo wasn’t beside him until he had almost reached the doors. When he turned around, he saw him, caught up in the prison-like grasp of one of the vendors, who just so happened to be seductively wrapping a Gryffindor tie around his neck until Draco grabbed him and whisked him away.

“But don’t you want to stay?” the hag called, her tone high and mocking. “I’m sure the Princess would love to have her tie back. Plus, I just _know_ she would be eternally indebted to the lad who brought it back to her.”

Draco was irritated. “What the fuck was that about?” he hissed as they entered the Leaky, Theo straightening his jacket with just as much exasperation. 

“I couldn’t tell you, but I’m sure we wouldn’t want to know.”

“Malfoy! Nott!” a familiar voice from over near the bar called as its owner waved them over. 

Before they went over to the man, Draco found his eyes wandering, searching the establishment for the man they were supposed to be meeting with in regards to their supply. Of course, he hadn’t arrived yet. That meant that the pair of Slytherins were going to have to sit with the insufferable bartender until he arrived. Apparently, today wasn’t their day. 

“Mr Roberts,” Theo exclaimed with a polite smile, shaking hands with the man as the two of them took their seats at the bar. “And how are you today?”

“Mighty fine, thank you. Would either of you lot fancy a drink? I’ll throw it on the house just for you.”

Theo seemed to pick up on Draco’s tetchiness and answered for the both of them, “Two firewhiskeys please.”

Roberts turned around, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and beginning to babble as he poured them their drinks. “So, did the pair of you grab hold of the rumour in the Alley this morning?”

“Rumours?” Theo interrogated, leaning forward as he rested his chin in his palm. “Is that why this place is so nutty today?”

The bartender turned around, slamming the glasses of whiskey down on the counter as he stared at the Slytherins, his expression filled with incredulity. “Don’t tell me you haven’t actually heard. Do you not read the _Prophet_ , my boy?”

“The _Prophet_ is filled with lies,” Draco interjected, sliding his glass away from the burly man and taking a sip, eyeing him carefully. “It has been ever since everyone was forced underground and the Ministry stopped fact-checking what it published.”

“This ain’t a lie, Malfoy,” he growled. “I have it on good accounts that everything I read‒ everything that _everyone_ read, was one hundred percent truthful. I doubt that someone would dare to impersonate Minerva McGonagall in the _Prophet_ ‒”

“McGonagall?” Theo asked, almost spitting out his drink as he probed further. “What was Professor McGonagall doing writing for the _Prophet_? Has Hogwarts really crumbled that much?”

Roberts shook his head, pulling out a familiar cream coloured paper from underneath the bar and laying it atop the counter. “Not that Nott, she’s looking for someone. You two remember when everything was forced underground? Potter and his pissy little friends couldn’t handle magic so they gave it up?”

Theo tisked. “Yeah, yeah, they gave up magic and everything went to hell. Go on, Roberts.”

“The Ministry checks up on them every so often, making sure that they aren’t getting into trouble and whatnot, but it’s been kept under wraps for years,” he explained, leaning back against the counter opposite them. “Except apparently, one of those barmy little prats went missing.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You ever heard the story of the missing Gryffindor Princess?”

Draco scoffed. “Gryffindor Princess? That sounds like a bad children’s tale.”

“She’s apparently been missing since ‘96. McGonagall has been looking for her ever since but never said anything until now. I guess she had enough of the search parties and just wants straight information. She’s even offering to pay for the girl.”

“Pay?” Theo grilled, watching the man inquisitively, his gaze turning fiery. “Why on earth would you be telling us about this when you undoubtedly want to go after the compensation yourself? You have something to gain from sending us on a wild goose chase or something?”

Roberts shook his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t go on the look. Half of the blokes in the Alley are planning on grabbing random bints and taking them to McGonagall to try to claim the prize, so I have to stay here and keep watch. I just figured that this might be up your alley, considering you’re in between projects and you went to school with the Princess. Granger, right? Hermione Granger? That’s what McGonagall referred to her as.”

Granger. Draco hadn’t thought about Granger in years, not since he had assumed she had been part of the group to royally fuck up his life. Not that he had been thinking about her much before that, or anything.

“What’s in it for you?” Draco hissed, his shoulders growing more and more tense as the alarms went off in his head, signalling to him that Roberts was just trying to pull one over on him. 

The bartender’s eyes flitted to him intensely, the pair glowering at each other for a moment before he approached the counter and reached underneath, pulling out an antique that reminded Draco of the jewellery box his mother used to keep in her room. His hand rested atop it as he placed it on the counter, sizing the two younger men up with his eyes. 

“Don’t play games,” Theo drawled. “What’s in the box, Roberts?”

The older man’s lips quirked in a knowing smirk. “I have it in good faith that McGonagall won’t just accept whatever random girl you pull at face value. You have to give her something to make her believe that you’ve found her Princess. I think I have exactly what you need.” His hands moved as he nimbly pulled back he hinged top, a feat he gave the man credit for given his abnormally large digits. Inside, laying above the crushed velvet was none other than a gold artefact he had only ever read about before.

“Is that… a time turner?” his acquaintance asked before he could, both of their eyes wide as they regarded the object. Draco hadn’t even realized he was reaching out to touch it until‒

“Not so fast, Malfoy,” Roberts snapped, closing the top and just barely missing Draco’s fingers. “I’ve had this in my possession for a few years now, but everyone in the Alley was saying that they needed something genuine of Granger’s to convince the old swot, and apparently it’s common knowledge that Hermione Granger was notorious for using a time turner in her third year at Hogwarts. Care to corroborate?”

Draco found himself tugging at the faintest memory of bad-mouthing the witch with his friends during dinner one night, mocking her for taking virtually every class under the sun. Pansy had hypothesized she had gotten her hands on a time turner, but Draco wasn’t sure‒

“We can corroborate it,” Theo interjected, pulling Draco from his thoughts before he could come to the same conclusion. “How much are you asking for?”

“How much are you offering?” the man tantalised. 

“Stop playing games and give us a number, Roberts,” the other Slytherin snarled, something deep within his brain telling him that even if he and Theo decided not to pursue this avenue, they couldn’t leave the Leaky today without that time turner in their possession. 

His sneaky eyes bounced between the two of them before finally landing on Draco’s as he said, “Five hundred galleons.”

Theo objected. “Five hundred galleons?!”

Draco was lucky he hadn’t broken from the man’s gaze, watching his lips move in a manner that he had anticipated from the start of their little game. “Why not make it one thousand.”

“One thous‒”

“Deal,” the Malfoy heir concluded, extending his hand out to the bartender and shaking before neither him nor his acquaintance had the chance to back out of their agreement. 

Just as the bartender passed the jewellry box into Draco’s hands, another patron from across the establishment called for him, leaving the pair of young Slytherins alone.

“Are you mad?” Theo accused, his voice a dramatically loud whisper that was nowhere near secretive.

Draco ignored his question, jumping right to the only query on his mind. “We’re doing this, right?”

“You seriously think we’ll be able to find the real Hermione Granger, what,” he paused, scanning the paper with his finger, “before Christmas? If you do, I have no idea why I haven’t had you committed to St. Mungo’s yet.”

“We don’t need to find the real her. As long as we find someone who looks enough like her and can act enough like a swot, we’ll be fine. I doubt anyone else has an authentic time turner to present to McGonagall.”

Theo eyed him questioningly. “And how do you know that’s an authentic time turner, hm? It’s not like we had it examined before procuring it.”

“I know, Theo. You just have to trust me on this one.”

His acquantance’s gaze was wary as it studied him, seemingly trying to understand the way the gears turned and shifted behind his eyes. “And why do you want to do this so much? Last I knew, you had a personal vendetta against all things Gryffindor, especially that lot.”

Theo’s inquiry was a good one. On one hand, it would be nice for him to stick it to those sodding Gryffindors by proving that he could show them up, even if they weren’t in his world anymore to see it. On another hand, the reward money wasn’t exactly just pebbles under his shoes. He and Theo could pack up and get out of the UK after that, not having to work with intolerable potions and even more unbearable vendors any longer if they combined their inheritances. On another hand, one that he kept in the shadows under the table, even if the attempt to win McGonagall’s money was a failure, the pair of them now had a time turner in their possession. The least they could was go back in time and stop the imbecilic lions from giving up magic in the first place. Draco assumed they would be much better off that way.

“I’m done working with counterfeit potions,” the Slytherin lied. “If we do this right, we could get out of here for good and never have to set foot in this godforsaken Alley ever again. Now, are you in or not?”

His friend’s face was unreadable for a long moment before his eyes glinted and his iconic knowing smirk returned. “I’m in.”

Maybe Draco was a con-man after all.

-*-

Jean never much liked her name. It was mundane, ordinary, even borderline boring. She supposed many times that she could change it and decide to go by something else, but that felt wrong to her. Her name was the one thing she had that was hers, truly hers, even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to her. It was a fair name, one that she could fathom using as a middle name for a daughter, especially if it ran in the family. But it wasn’t her. Although, she didn’t change it. 

She could have changed it after her twentieth birthday when she finally moved out of the house she had been staying in for as long as she could remember. Charlotte Turner had been the only thing close to a mother that she had ever known, but even then she was nothing close to motherly. The woman was a brute, yet demanded that Jean stay at her boarding house until she was back on her feet more. Her twentieth birthday was the day that she was allowed to be free.

Jean bought her own flat shortly thereafter, having saved money from working at a bookstore in the heart of London, hidden in a nice alley located a little bit out of the way from the normal hubbub of the city. It was small, but it was home. When she acquired the key and brought her small bag of belongings through the door for the first time, she was surprised to find that she wasn’t alone.

A fluffy orange cat awaited her, sitting prestigiously in the centre of what was supposed to be her sitting room. 

She tried her hardest to get rid of the cat, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to adequately take care of it, but the darned thing persisted. Jean would come home from work every day and find him in the same spot she originally found him. It would always end with her taking him and placing him outside, telling him to scurry off back to his home, but every morning she would wake up and he would be back waiting for her in the sitting room. 

She gave up after a week, rationalizing that cats must not have been so bad, right? 

-*-

_“What are we going to name you, Mister cat?” she mused, watching him as he stared back up at her regally. He always did that. He was such an aristocratic fluffy little being._

__

_Jean watched as her new roommate hopped up onto her sofa, a small thing that came with the flat she had purchased. He snuggled right into the throw pillows she had purchased in an attempt to make the place more homely before glaring at her, an aggressive and bothered meow erupting from his tiny face._

__

_She laughed. He sounded like a cricket._

__

_“Cricket then,” she grinned through a chuckle, walking over to him to pet his head gently. He nuzzled into her hand without any hesitation. “You know, Cricks, you seem to be awfully comfortable here already. Did your old owner leave you here?”_

__

_The cat didn’t answer. Jean almost expected him to._

__

_“Well, never mind about that anymore,” she dismissed, patting him once on the head before sitting down next to him and pulling one of her favourite books from the coffee table onto her lap. “I’ll have to figure out what type of food to feed you, but I’m sure we can figure it out.” Cricket snuggled further into her, his head slightly resting on the corner of Jean’s book in her lap._

__

_The scene felt oddly familiar._

__

_“We’ll figure it out.”_

-*-

Ever since officially adopting him into her household, Cricket and Jean had fallen into a regular schedule that both of them seemed to appreciate. During the week, the pair would wake up early so that Jean could get to her job at Folklore and Blank Verse. He always would make his little cricket sounds in protest, but he would be happy as soon as she put his food down for him. She would return home to take her lunch break with him every Wednesday, and after the shop closed, the pair of them would dine together in the living room while Jean put on a movie or read a book. The weekends were for adventuring out to parks or going shopping. Jean worked on Saturdays until midway through the afternoon, and they would usually go out and garden or read. There wasn’t much variation ever, seeing as it was just the two of them. 

Today was no different. Wake up, get Cricket his food, make breakfast, get dressed, and go to work. Work wasn’t so bad. Folklore and Blank Verse was a nice enough place. Mrs Fletchley was a wonderful employer who always gave Jean time off whenever she would ask for it, not that she would often. The books she kept stocked were always Jean’s favourites, classics and wild fantasies of princesses and princes and everything under the sun. The patrons were nice enough, never asking too much of her. 

It was, quite frankly, the perfect situation. 

Jean loved books; reading was her escape from the solitude she so often found herself surrounded by. The characters would pop off the page, filling her soul with fresh air as they allowed her to feel a little bit more like a normal person‒ as normal as someone without many memories could be. Folklore and Blank Verse gave her everything she felt as if she knew about herself; she could get lost in the aisles and pages forever, never feeling anything less than at home. Well, as much at home as she could feel while still being alone.

She was lost in a daydream about what her life would have been like if she could recall her memories when a particularly frustrating patron walked up to the counter. He had the most god-awful red hair Jean had ever seen, paired with an unkempt smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Luckily, he wasn’t completely awful that day, only arguing with her about her book recommendation for his friend once instead of the usual three or four times.

By the time the end of the day came, she was exhausted, her original thoughts about the considerate nature of her patrons completely vanishing after the whirlwind of the afternoon she had experienced. 

“How was today down here, Jean?” Mrs Fletchley called from up on the landing of the second floor as she leaned over the balcony, watching the younger girl as she stood behind the counter sorting receipts. 

“Rather hectic, if I’m being honest,” Jean replied, placing a log book on its special shelf. “I think I might go out to get a drink or two before heading home.”

The older woman appeared at her side suddenly, almost as if she had popped out of thin air. “You should go then,” Mrs Fletchley insisted, taking the papers from her hands and turning around as Jean tried to reach for them. “You’re only young once, sweetheart, you might as well start acting like it. I will take care of the ledgers for this evening, you are free to go.”

“But I haven’t finished my responsibilities here‒”

“And as I just said, you are free to go. Your pay won’t be docked, you aren’t leaving early, you are getting off work on time.” Mrs Fletchley paused, spinning around to look at Jean in a manner that almost had the girl wondering if the woman was pitying her. “You don’t know what you’re missing until you try it. Go try things. You deserve a break from all this nonsense.”

The woman was watching Jean with kind eyes, eyes that reminded her almost of someone she had never met but knew was out there waiting for her. She felt guilty, but she could leave, right? Mrs Fletchley was giving her the chance‒ not the chance, the _order_ ‒ to leave. 

With a warm, albeit slightly strained smile, Jean crossed over to the coatrack and grabbed her belongings before exiting the shop with a nod to Mrs Lawrence, who yelled after her, “Have fun, Jean!”

The pub she found herself at was the one she always ended up at whenever she needed a drink. It was tucked away just like her shop, a place that she only seemed to be able to find when she really focused on trying to find it, even though she knew its location never changed. Today was no different.

She was inside of the pub walking up to the bar as soon as her brain cleared and allowed her to find her way. A few sips into her first vodka and cranberry, she could feel her skin start to prickle as her mind wandered.

Why was it that whenever she ended up at a pub, she was always alone? Looking around, she could see groups of people placed around the establishment, laughing with friends as they drank and snacked. None of them were alone.

Another sip.

Why was she alone? Why did the universe have to do that to her? She had Cricket and Mrs Fletchley, but Cricket was a cat and Mrs Fletchley was her boss. There was only so much interaction she could have with the both of them that was considered normal.

But she didn’t have anyone else. 

Another sip.

Where were her parents? Why hadn’t they come to find her yet? Charlotte Turner told her that she hadn’t been dropped off as a baby like most of the other girls, but had stumbled in alone and afraid as a teenager. Why had she been found by herself as a teenager? 

Had she done something wrong and caused her parents to not want her anymore?

And yet, another sip.

Who was she? She knew why she was given the name Jean; Charlotte had told her from the beginning that when they would ask her for the names of people she knew, she would keep saying Jean and Roger, over and over and over again. So, Charlotte gave her the name Jean. But it wasn’t hers. She knew, just _knew_ that it wasn’t. 

She wanted to find her parents. She wanted to figure out who she was. She wanted to know why she loved her job at Folklore and Blank Verse and why she didn’t like tea and why the one Broadway album she could listen to without any skips was Phantom of the Opera. 

That was why she ended up in the loo, hunched over a sink as the tears streamed from her face. She desperately attempted to rid herself of them, her fingers plucking them away one by one, but it was no use. With every second that passed, it felt like more and more of her memories were slipping away, falling out of her grasp as she was pulled back under the rough waters that were her unknowing. 

She didn’t even realize she was no longer alone until a hand was on her shoulder.

“You doing alright, babes?” the voice asked in a tone that Jean interpreted as genuine concern.

The heels of Jean’s palms were pressed into her eyes not a second later, siphoning the tears as she took a look at the girl next to her. If she had to guess, the stranger was about her age, bright green eyes and short raven hair framing her face. She was tall, her black heels only adding to their height difference. 

It almost felt as if she knew her from somewhere. 

“I’m fine,” Jean dismissed, turning away from the girl to fix her appearance in the mirror once more.

“You don’t seem fine,” she badgered, moving further into Jean’s space. She remained silent as the girl studied her, a long moment passing with the two of them existing in the other’s bubble.

“Pansy.” 

Jean looked up, startled at the sudden noise after the minute of silence that the pair had fallen into. 

The girl‒ Pansy, seemed to pick up on her surprise, quickly continuing, “That’s my name, if it helps any. I won’t tell anyone anything that you say to me, so feel free to start talking and never stop. We will probably never see each other again anyway, so what’s the harm?”

The alcohol may have been what was telling her so, but regardless, Pansy was right. Jean would never see her again after tonight, presumably, which meant that anything she told her wouldn’t be able to harm her. If anything, Pansy might have been able to help her, make her feel better until she could return home to her cat and her books and the comfort of her tiny flat. 

Her tiny flat. Belonging to a girl who didn’t know who she was.

Jean lost it right then and there. 

The tears fell without reserve, no rhyme nor reason to be found anywhere as she mourned. She mourned for herself, for her unknown identity, for her parents, whom she didn't know were dead or alive, and for the future she didn’t know would ever feel complete without the extensive knowledge of her past. The garbled words stumbled from between her lips without hesitance, and before she knew it, she was spilling her entire life story, or what she knew of it, to this girl, this Pansy that she had never met before in her life.

“Home doesn’t feel like home,” Jean wailed, Pansy’s hand in her hand as she stroked through her short bunch of mangy curls. 

“Babe, I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but there’s not much you can do about that. You’ve already added things that you like, you have a pet, plus you’ve been living there for a little bit.”

She didn’t like the girl’s response. Jean knew that was the case, but still‒

“But,” Pansy continued, turning to the mirror to fix her makeup as Jean readjusted her hair in a similar fashion, “if you really want to know more about your parents, I think I know someone who might be able to help you.”

Her head perked up and away from the mirror almost immediately. “You do? You know someone who could help me to find my parents?”

Her lips curled in a smirk, an expression that was borderline to a sneer as she finished polishing her appearance and walked away from the mirrors and sinks over towards the exit. “I very well might.” 

Jean began to scramble for her words, flabbergasted at the girl’s apparent knowledge and charm while withholding information that could change her entire life. “What? Nothing more? You can’t just leave me with‒”

“Do you know Draco Malfoy?”

She paused, watching as Pansy turned over her shoulder to observe Jean’s reaction. “I‒ I‒ I’m afraid I don’t. Is he a friend of yours?”

“In a way,” Pansy shrugged. “He knows everything there is to know about everyone. If you want to try to find your parents, you’ll need his help.”

A person. A person who could help her figure out who she was, what past she belonged to. She had a name, a lead to follow. 

“Where can I find him?”

Pansy smirked, not sneeringly, but almost with elation. “If you give me your address, I’ll see to it that he writes you. Maybe you can set up a meeting someday.”

With that, she turned, swaying her hips in a manner that Jean knew wasn’t attributable to the alcohol as she strutted from the loo, leaving her alone. 

Alone, but with something‒ a _lead_ to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are love! Come find me on Twitter @emlohamora :)


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